IV.
(Fort Bruno)
One with my poem
Sitting on moss
Silent camouflage in shades of green and brown.
Suddenly the wind blasts:
Mushrooms, berries, bits of rain,
The forest makes fun with
Bright childrens’ voices,
Bright children’s coats.
Berrypickers slump over like mosscovered limbs
Sagging through inability
To change
But content to accept the dictates of forest law.
Content as nature.
Content as the curving road
That is, not content.
No magic code to unravel the tangled root
A hidden thing, a maze
Silver night
Weight of gravity.
I do not speak of dialogue or misinformation,
Lack of communication,
or the One and its schism..
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